Sunday Scribblings - "Cheese" - 9/27/09

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is "Cheese". The first thing that came to mind was a video of my granddaughter Maris.

Micromanaging the Homeless - 9/19/09

I am a charitable person, though my resources are very limited. I am one careless night in a nudie bar from being homeless. In spite of my position near the bottom rungs of the economic ladder, I realize there are those below me. My heart goes out to those less fortunate than me.
Though I give for the satisfaction I receive in helping others (I wrote previously about my love of angel trees), I also want my gifts to be appreciated and used to benefit.
Once, as I was driving in Myrtle Beach, I saw a woman by the side of the road with a couple of kids (I am a sucker for dogs and kids) and a sign that said “we are hungry.” Well, of course I nearly crashed my vehicle going back to where they were standing. All I had in my wallet was a ten dollar bill, so I gladly gave it to the mother. She snatched it from my hand and didn’t say a word, not even a smile. I didn’t expect her to curtsey, but a “thank you” would have been nice, if only with her eyes. As I looked back, I saw her fold the ten spot into a large roll of bills that she removed from her tote bag.
I have given money to panhandlers that I am confident was instantly turned into crack or Thunderbird. So I have since changed my approach to philanthropy.
A man approached me Thursday night In front of the Food Lion (for northerners and foreigners that is a supermarket). He explained that he had been out of work for some time and asked if I could help him out. I asked him if he was hungry. I never want anyone to go hungry. He said no, he had gotten something to eat but needed some money to get a place to stay, gas, etc. I again asked if he needed something to eat, I would take him in and buy him some food. He declined and walked away. I had mixed emotions about that encounter. On one hand I felt that if I was destitute and someone offered food I would take gladly take it, even if I was not hungry at that moment. On the other hand, if I give him money, is it really any of my business what he does with it? Is the need for drugs or alcohol any less of a necessity than that for food? As I have never been addicted to either substance, I can never know.

I think instead of trying to micromanage the needy, I will limit my charity to organizations that benefit such people and let them sort it out. I will return to the angel tree this holiday season.

Sunday Scribblings - Celebrate - 4/4/09

I didn't think there was going to be a Sunday Scribbling this week so I didn't write anything but when I saw the prompt was Celebrate I was reminded of a video clip I saw recently. You can see it here. Wouldn't sports be a lot more fun if this type of celebration was embraced? In golf, most players are boring, emotionless, robots. About the only player who shows any emotion is Tiger Woods and he is sometimes criticized for it. More people would tune in if the could expect him to respond to a made putt in this manner. I don't like, or understand chess, but I would watch chess masters play if there was any chance of the victor providing post-match entertainment. I actually react in a similar manner when I beat my daughter at Cribbage.

Sunday Scribblings - "Aging" - 3/29/09

The first thing that came to mind when I saw the Sunday Scribblings prompt of “Aging” is a line from Jeff Dunham’s very funny ventriloquist act: Jeff: “Women age like fine wine.” Walter (dummy): “She ages like milk.”

I think that 2008 was the year that I became aware I was curdling. I have always been reluctantly aware of aging, but last year it became impossible to remain in denial. If I were an automobile, every warning light would be illuminated and all gauges would be pegged to the minimum values. My doctor started using words like biopsy, nodule, mass, cyst, polyps, etc. And what is up with skin tags? I am getting so many of them I am starting to look like a Trill. I had x-rays, cat scans, and MRIs of body parts that doctors had never had any interest in before. Every time they ask my family history my response is met with a slight grimace and a worrisome amount of medical transcription. Both my parents died of metastatic cancer, origin unknown, at a fairly young age. I am careening towards that age.

The older that I get, the faster the months of the calendar tear off. Years, sometimes decades, pass without me really noticing. I have been divorced for over 22 years, much longer than I was married. I have been retired from the Air Force for over 16 years. I still have nightmares about both tours of duty. But most shocking to me is that the final episode of Seinfeld was broadcast 11 years ago. Of course that doesn’t stop me from watching reruns every day. I am certain that when the poet, Virgil, coined the phrase “tempus fugit” he was in my demographic.

Some of the aging signs are physical and some are mental. Some are subtle and some are dramatic and undeniable. As a very corporeal person, who considers himself ten feet tall and bullet proof, physical corrosions are the most obvious.

Not long ago, Skooter and I were walking on the beach. Some guys were tossing a football and it got loose near us. I picked it up and elected to throw it back to the guy who was about 30 yards down the beach. One thing I was blessed with was a very strong throwing arm. So I gauged the effort required to complete this pass with a tight spiral would be little more than a flick of the wrist. I cocked and fired and it flew like a duck that had been hit by anti-aircraft fire. Not only did it not make the 30 yards, it went end over end and did not fly out of my shadow. I think, even my dog was embarrassed by my futility. The only thing that could have been worse would have been an attempt to kick the ball and add a groin pull to my damaged pride. There was a similar event featuring an alligator and a golf ball that my son, Josh, revels in witnessing but I will not detail here.

My golf game has lost 50 yards of driving distance in recent years but I have not yet achieved the “old man” accuracy that usually replaces it.

There has been an irrefutable loss of mental acuity. I often enter a room without any knowledge of a reason for being there. I have often read several chapters of a book before realizing I had read it before. These small, seemingly insignificant, lapses are actually more disturbing than the expected physical deterioration. How close am I to being the guy who forgets to put his pants on before leaving the house?

But the most disconcerting indication of my aging is that I have reached that magical point in my life that a woman I find attractive and desirable may be interested in me as a dating possibility…………….for her mother. Stop laughing!!

Sunday Scribbling - "Where are you from?" - 3/21/09

I have traveled to quite a large portion of the world and met a lot of people. One of the first things I am asked when I meet someone new is “where are you from?” When someone asks that, I don’t respond immediately. I hesitate in order to assess whether they can relate to a response of “near Spokane” or “west of Missoula”. Sometimes it is enough to say, "out west."

Most people take pride in where they come from: “Don’t Mess with Texas.” Those from a complete shithole like Oklahoma beam with pleasure at the mention of their home state. It was even celebrated In a fantastic Rodgers and Hammerstein musical. No one is more fiercely loyal to their home than a New Yorker. "Forget about it." Even the most inbred proclaim their pride in being from Tenne-damn-see or West-by God-Virginia. North and South Carolina combine to become the Carolinas. Carolina is revered in many great songs. A Carolinian radiates with pride when they tell you where they are from. They could be living in a camp trailer and dining on roadkill, but they love Carolina. I cannot conjure up that feeling for my home state of Idaho. The only song I know about Idaho is “And Here we have Idaho.” The chorus is:

And here we have Idaho
Winning her way to fame.
Silver and gold in the sunlight blaze,
and romance lies in her name.

It sounds like it was written as a fifth grade class project. It is a dreadful song. Idaho evokes neither fame nor romance. Idaho has no native sons like James Taylor or Charlie Daniel to glorify it. I think I have found a song more representative of Idaho. Here it is. If you listen closely, it is supportive of Idaho, trying to keep the developers out. Perhaps there will be a grass roots movement to adopt this as the state song.

I try to avoid claiming Idaho, as one of two things occurs when I have slipped up and admitted my association: If they are familiar with Idaho, their first response is “oh potatoes”. That is infuriating to anyone from the part of Idaho that I grew up in. To me it is no less offensive than someone saying they are from Nevada and the response is “oh whorehouses.” Potatoes are not grown in northern Idaho. In fact the part of Idaho that I grew up in, nothing grew, not even grass. But I have already talked about that in a previous post. The second common response (particularly by the aforementioned inbreds) is a blank look while they call up images of the Midwest, where all of the other “I” states are located. I just noticed this: check this out
How sad to be from Iowa that is so obscure it doesn’t even get recognized as a state by the source of all knowledge, wiki.answers.

Idaho has become a punch line. I remember when Al Bundy said that they should send all pregnant women to a state no one cares about and call it Pregaho. The only notoriety it received was from an excellent documentary on Idaho life called Napoleon Dynamite. Any national news article about Idaho is always about the capture of some miscreant, white supremacy group, serial murderer, a senator performing reach-arounds in public toilets, or some other negative imagery.

I have recently reconnected with several of my classmates from high school through Facebook. I have found very few who still live in Idaho. It is a good place to be from. Far from.

Jeff, I am not implying that everyone in Tennessee is inbred, but some of them are.

Sunday Scribbling - Listen up because this is important - 3/6/09

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is "Listen up because this is important!" This gives me an opportunity to climb on the soapbox a bit.

I am never ashamed to be an American, but I am often embarrassed by the stupidity and naivety of my fellow countrymen and women.

I am not going to address the crap the Merinos of America accept as truth from the evening news and their elected officials in Washington D.C.. I am going to discuss how easily they are duped by advertisements and swindled by flimflam.

There are currently commercials running where people are instructed to put all their “unwanted” gold into an envelope and mail it in. They will, in turn, send you a check. National ads would not continue to run if they were not successful. They are too expensive. That means that a lot of people are actually doing this. Does anyone really believe that they are going to receive fair market value, if anything, for this gold? Obviously some trusting souls do believe. If you want to get cheated, go to your local pawn shop and do it face to face. That way, if you don't like what they are offering, you can walk away.

Is there such a thing as “unwanted” gold? Hey, if you have any unwanted Krugerrands or Dubloons, I will take them off your hands. Send them to me and I will send you "cash". I would not want you to be burdened with them.

Oh yeah, and if you happen to have unwanted jewelry, here is a thought. Give it back to the poor bastard that bought it for you.

There exists a plethora of prescription drugs that instruct the viewer to “ask your doctor” about a particular course of treatment. Isn’t that exactly opposite of how the system should work? Shouldn’t the doctor diagnose the malady and prescribe the appropriate drug? Is it really good medicine for us to self-diagnose and then tell our physician which drug we think is best for us? “Doc, I think if you look at my chart you will clearly see that the Chemo and radiation therapy are not working. I would like to try 36 hour Cialis.”

I have been half-heartedly looking for employment. I made the mistake of listing my resume on some of the online job services; Career Builder, Monster, etc. I am contacted nearly every day by ridiculous scams promising a jillion dollars from working at home part-time. Evidently, I can earn thousands by being a “mystery shopper. “ There are also foreign companies looking to do business in the US and they have decided I am the perfect person to be their agent. How exciting. They are going to send me loads of money if I just provide them my bank account, social security number, and other personal information. Even AFLAC has a scam where you pay them several hundred dollars for insurance training and then you might qualify to be an “independent” agent, but you might not. Again, if these cons did not work, they would not continue to thrive. It is my opinion that anyone stupid enough to be victimized by any of these obvious frauds deserves what they get. Or rather lose.

There are a bunch of weight loss schemes and programs that all use a common method. It obviously works. They show before and after photos of prior “customers”. In the after photo, they not only appear to have lost weight, but they now have new hairstyles, a tan, and nicer clothing. Some actually have different color eyes, hair, and sometimes they actually appear to have altered their race. They even stand in front of a nicer home.

This promotion is obviously effective as they are all doing it. Not just weight loss but skin, hair, and teeth whitening products. Watching this type of advertising has given me an idea. I could be a “before” model for virtually any product. I need an agent.

The only true advertisement I have seen lately is for that weight loss product that makes you periodically crap your pants, Alli. Their spokesperson is Wynonna Judd. She talks about the product changing her life, but there is no evidence of any weight loss. If anything, she is heavier than ever. She makes no claims to having lost weight. But she speaks of Alli altering her life. I can only believe that she enjoys soiling her granny panties enough to recommend the product.

Again, I am available for endorsement. There is something intriguing about getting paid to shit myself. Again, I need an agent, stat. In just a few short years my marketability will be ruined when I fill my briefs naturally and involuntarily, sans Alli.

Sunday Scribblings - "Lost" - 2/27/09

The Sunday Scribblings prompt for this week is "Lost". This is what came to mind.

Gerald was seventeen. It was June 1944. He had joined the army because everyone did. There were other guys from his hometown right here on Omaha Beach, though there were probably guys from every American village. There were soldiers as far as he could see in either direction. Some were laying still. Some were missing bloody pieces. All who could were moving forward, toward the insurmountable odds with superior positions. He did not want to be in France, but here he was crawling deeper into it.
He heard a mortar shell exploding very close to him. The old timers had lied to him, saying the ones you hear don’t hurt you. He woke up several days later, into intense pain and darkness. He was not sure which was more terrifying. He reached up to feel the bandages that covered his eyes. He heard the comforting voice and touch of an angel.
It turned out that she was not an angel, but a nurse on the hospital ship he was a passenger on. He asked. She answered. He had lost sight in his right eye and hearing in the same-side ear. A Purple Heart was pinned to the pillow next to him. He came back as a hometown hero, to parade and celebration. Deservedly so. He spent the rest of his very happy life viewed at a forty five degree angle, compensating for his loss. He took the nurse as his wife and she bore him a son in 1950.

Jerry was eighteen years old. It was 1968. He had been drafted into the army because he couldn’t afford to go to college and was rated suitable cannon fodder. Lots of guys here in Khe Sanh had traded their cap and gowns for jungle fatigues. He did not care about Vietnam and could not have found it on a map six months ago. Now here he was. He made the mistakes of being an excellent shot and a natural leader. His father had taught him both. Those skills put him right up front.
He weathered nightly rocket attacks and assaults from an invisible enemy. He even survived the Tet Offensive. Many of his buddies did not. He learned not to make friends, as it was easier to see a stranger blown away than a friend. He lost his innocence to death, infected whores (they were known as LBFMs), and Buddha stick. He learned that cheap drugs could take away the fear and numb his brain from the horrors he participated in daily.
He came home to ridicule and shouts of “baby killer.” He retreated into himself and jumped from noises others could not hear. He rarely slept and when he did his dreams were Clive Barker horror films. He spent the rest of his tortured life in anonymous groups and back alleys. He often thought of his late, one-eyed, dad and proudly wore his Purple Heart pinned onto his Vietnam Veteran cap. There is no medal or real treatment for the loss that Jerry sustained.

Sunday Scribblings - "Trust" - 2/20/09

This week's Sunday Scribbling prompt is "trust". The latest peanut butter crisis has caused me to reflect on the risks we take in our everyday life. The thousands of people, mostly strangers, to which we entrust our lives and those of our family every day. Among millions of risks we take without realizing, we are trusting that:


The person piloting the aircraft we are riding in hasn’t just lost the will to live.

Our pharmacist can really read the physician’s writing and doesn’t confuse oxybutynin and oxycontin.

The guy driving the oncoming vehicle is awake and sober.

The kid assembling our burger didn’t just digitally master himself or his girlfriend prior to handling OUR meat.

The fish we are about to eat was not caught in highly contaminated waters. Was transported properly and in a timely manner. Was not handled by anyone with hepatitis of any letter.

Our elected leaders aren’t selling us out to socialism and foreign domination.

The person living in the condo next to us will not get drunk and fall asleep with a lit cigarette.

Our doctor paid attention in medical school.

Our partner hasn't just had a dalliance with someone infected with an STD.

The nice baseball coach, priest, teacher, childcare provider, scout leader, (fill in the blank) isn't a pedophile.

The Arab cab driver we are sitting behind doesn't have a dirty bomb in the trunk.

ENJOY YOUR LUNCH TODAY

Sunday Scribblings - Sports - 2/13/09

When I saw the prompt was sports, there were several ways I could go. I could talk about how my life has been defined and enhanced by sports. I was a competitor in my younger years,
then became a coach, critic, and motivator, as my children participated in a variety of sports,



and now am pretty much reduced to being a fan, unless you count golf and bowling as sports.


My poor daughter, Carly, by virtue of living with three guys, had no choice but to play sports as well.



Lucky for her, she was a good athlete, but in high school switched to cheer leading. Carly was good enough at that to compete in the national championships at Disney World.

She has continued this competitive family tradition with her son, Carson. She has exposed him to several team sports to let him discover which ones he enjoys, if any.

My granddaughter Maris has already shown some talent. If nothing else she has learned to pose like an athlete.

I know a lot of bloggers consider themselves academics that are above sports and will predictably rail against athletic folly but they were and are a very valuable glue that helped to hold a broken family together. Don't get me wrong, we did not obsess with sports at the expense of academics. All three of my children graduated with honors from college. I was always of the belief that the best way to keep kids out of trouble is by keeping them busy with activities. In a military community, sports were always available. All three of my kids possessed aptitude for physical competition. After hauling their trophies all over the world, I gave most of them away to the Special Olympics, keeping only those with special meaning.
I could have written about that but I decided not to.

I could have talked about how professional sports have been ruined for me by the money, drugs, attitude of the players, and corruption. Here are a few facts that will illustrate my disillusionment with where professional sports have gone.

4th place in a single major PGA tournament pays more money than I have earned in my entire life (I checked my social security statement).

2nd place at a major PGA tournament pays more than Arnold Palmer made in his career.

Alex Rodriguez makes more money in a 3 game weekend series than I have made in my entire life.

In 2008, playing in only 6 events, Tiger Woods won more prize money than Jack Nicklaus, the greatest golfer of all-time, earned in his entire career.

David Beckham made $13,000 per each minute he played for the Los Angeles Galaxy. He was paid $32.5 million dollars and played a total of 2,500 minutes.

Carl Pavano was paid $40 million by the New York Yankees and pitched a total of 26 games, winning only 9 of them. That is over $4.4 million per win.

The minimum wage of a major league baseball player who is a bench warmer and may never actually get on the field is $390,000.

The minimum wage of an NFL rookie, who may never get into a game is $295,000.

The minimum wage of an NBA rookie, who may never get into a game is $442,114.

The minimum wage of an NHL rookie, who may never get into a game is $450,000.

Is it any wonder kids are drawn to steroids in order to compete at a high level?

But I decided not to write about that aspect of sports either.

What I have decided to write about a sporting event that I recently attended that restored a bit of my faith in professional sports. Though I am not a hockey fan by any means, my daughter and grandson recently treated me to a professional hockey game in Winston Salem. The Twin City Cyclones participate in the Southern Professional Hockey League. Yes, they have hockey in the south. I was surprised too.
It is, however, the absolute bottom of the professional hockey barrel. These kids play their hearts out with absolutely no hope of ever lacing them up in the National Hockey League. They are definitely not doing it for the money or glory. They play in front of about 1,000 fans. The league enforces a $5,600 a week salary cap which is split between the 18 players on the roster. The league minimum for Canadian players is $275 (hear that NHL). They can pay Americans less than that (we evidently suck at Hockey). Players are provided a place to live and some local restaurants give them discounts and that is it. And for that they get the absolute stuffing beat out of them. They undoubtedly play for the love of the game.

As a non-hockey fan, I was entertained every bit as much as if I were watching the top tier of the NHL and had a lot better seats. They have a mascot, though I am not entirely sure what it is. It is some kind of blue bird. How that relates to a cyclone is anybody's guess. But it nearly got ran over by the Zamboni, further adding to my enjoyment.

We attended on Humane Society Night and if you brought a dog your admission was free. They had dog shows on a carpet rolled out on the ice between each period. Skooter would not have approved and would have made a scene. The Cyclones even gave my grandson a puck and would have autographed it if we had desired.

Sunday Scribblings - Regrets - 1/30/09

Skooter and I are off to North Carolina to meet my new granddaughter Sophie,

but this prompt, regrets, caught my eye and I had to make a comment, however brief and inconsequential, before we crank up the IPOD and drive north.

I do not have regrets. They are counterproductive. I know I have made lots of mistakes in my life but if I had it to do over again and did not make those particular blunders I would make others equally as grievous. No, it is better to look forward than dwell on the past.

There are certain things I would do differently. I would apply myself academically. I would be a better son, father, and friend. I would take the harder road versus the easy one. I would take better care of myself. I would ………….. Shit. I guess I do have regrets. Sonofabitch!!!!!!

Can you regret that you have regrets?

Sunday Scribblings - Phantoms & Shadows - 1/25/09

I have been blogging for nearly two years. Writing here, usually in response to prompts supplied by various blog sites, has brought to light memories from the shadows of the disturbed recesses of my mind. I try to recount and record these stories before they once again become phantoms and slip back into the darkness. This week’s Sunday Scribbling instructions brought back memories of elementary school.

For nearly all of my 6 years of primary education, I attended Silver King School. It was located in a small gulch just east of Smelterville, Idaho. A creek flowed along beside the school and adjacent to the playground area. Sounds like an idyllic setting. However any image you have conjured of a trout filled, crystal clear, mountain stream flowing down the valley is premature. Upstream from the schoolhouse was plant that refined zinc. All of the waste created by that refinery was washed downstream to us. Zinc is a heavy metal, and though our bodies require a minimal amount of zinc for maximum performance, we do not require, nor can we tolerate the amounts that oozed from that creek. When I think of this water, lyrics from an old Chris Rhea song come immediately to mind:

“I'm standing by a river but the water doesn't flow
It boils with every poison you can think of.”

The water was a color that I am certain God never intended H2O to be. It was a grayish/green opalescent liquid. We did not routinely wade into the toxic waste, but from time to time one of our playground kickballs would sail over the chain-link fence and one of us would fetch it. There was one kid that had some kind of seizures and every so often we would find him walking down the stream. Someone would go retrieve him too. This creek feeds the Coeurd'Alene River which, in turn, issues into scenic Lake Coeure'Alene, where we swam, fished, and water skied.

Had that been the only environmental issue we faced, this writing would not have the impact on the reader that I had hoped for. The school was also in the shadow of huge smokestacks (first one, then a second was built) which belched the exhaust from the huge lead and silver refinery that was on a hillside just a few hundred yards east of the school.

We were so accustomed to the “smelter smoke” that we hardly even noticed except on the days it was particularly pungent. This was long before there was an EPA. The focus of the government in those days was mutually assured destruction of the Russians and not air quality. The air we breathed on a daily basis was more toxic than any Los Angeles has ever experienced. If there were air quality warnings in 1960, we would have never been allowed outside at all. The combination of the water and the air would have made Erin Brockovich throw up her hands and run for cover. The hillsides had been choked and were devoid of any vegetation. What did our lungs look like?


Our playground contained equipment that would be banned today. Corroded from the very air that we inhaled and corrupted from exposure to too many Idaho winters, we survived playing on it. A tetherball hung from a pole. We would beat the crap out of it but I don’t think we ever completed a game. It seemed the only rule was you couldn’t grab the rope. I do not even know if that was a legitimate game or just something we had in Idaho. It was featured in Napoleon Dynamite, a film that was a pretty accurate portrayal of Idaho life.

Inside that schoolhouse, we received a quality education. Outside we were subjected to toxins, but inside we were exposed to music, art, and literature. Though I can’t recite what I had for lunch yesterday, I can recall from memory several poems that I learned nearly 50 years ago. Any aptitude I possessed for creative writing was nurtured inside that building. Though most of our parents, who were employed by the very company that was poisoning us, had not completed high school, many of us went on to earn advanced degrees. The foundation that I received at Silver King Elementary School prepared me for the future. Thank you Mrs.Woolum.

Sunday Scribblings - "Pilgrimage" - 1/18/09

This week’s Sunday Scribblings prompt is “Pilgrimage.” The following event came to mind:

I have driven across the United States several times. Well, nearly all the way across. I usually have driven back and forth from Idaho or Wyoming to the coast of South Carolina or Georgia. One way is between two thousand and twenty six hundred miles depending upon points of embarkation and debarkation. Though I love my country, the vast majority of it is pretty boring visually, particularly the Midwest. The only thing that rises above the horizon of corn is an occasional silo. It is topographically challenged.


So in order to break the monotony of interstate highway driving, I have sometimes ventured off the beaten path to visit a point of interest. I have seen the world’s largest ball of twine in Cawker City, Kansas.

I have detoured to see professional and collegiate stadiums and Boot Hill in Dodge City Kansas.

I have visited the Superman Museum in Metropolis, Illinois

and Carhenge (yep there is one) in Alliance, Nebraska,

But none of these were really planned, just a spur of the moment diversion. Sometimes just spotting and advertisement, "Prairie dog town, two miles."

On one of my trips south, I actually did make a major course change and embark on a pilgrimage of sorts. Along with reading, music, and film, sports are a major part of my life. Two of my all-time sports heroes, Larry Bird and Don Mattingly, are from Indiana. Larry is from French Lick (the name alone is worth a visit) and Donny Baseball is from Evanston. I am certain that some of my readers are alarmed that I would know that minutiae. People that know me will not be surprised at all. Anyway, Indiana is not on my normal intracontinental route. I am guessing that Indiana is not on anyone’s route, unless one races automobiles. I am probably the only person in history who has gone on a pilgrimage to Indiana.

So after I passed through St Louis (always a pleasure), instead of taking Interstate 57 South toward Paducah, Kentucky, I stayed on Interstate 64 and took it into Indiana. I visited French Lick first because I did not know what time the Larry Bird Museum might close. At the time, it was located in the lobby of a hotel, so I did not need to worry. French Lick was pretty much a hell-hole, but in the years since my visit they have built casinos and golf courses. If I lived in French Lick I would open up a massage parlor/ice cream shop. Happy endings for all.

But it was heartwarming to see how a small town (under 2,000 then) honors their favorite son. His image was everywhere. I come from a small town that has never really had anyone to honor. The only resident’s images are on the wall of the post office and sometimes offer a reward. Exploring French Lick, I was pretty sure that Larry got his looks from some selective in-breeding.

Then it was on to Evansville about 90 miles away, where I had dinner at Mattingly’s 23 Restaurant and met Don’s brother, Randy. At least, he said he was Don’s brother. It is possible that Evansville residents take turns hanging around the restaurant bar pretending to be Don’s brother, encouraging tourists to stay and have a few drinks. After hearing what a fan I was and that I was on a pilgrimage, Randy gave me an autographed photo of Don. At least, he said it was autographed by Don. It could have been autographed by any of the town’s Randys.

Anyway, I felt good about my pilgrimage; even though I found out later that I was only 500 miles from the Field of Dreams in Dyersville, Iowa.
You might think that is quite a haul but I once drove 830 miles from Darien, Georgia to O’Fallon, Illinois to have lunch with a woman, because she didn’t believe I would. I guess the joke was on you, Angie Buhrman. Never, test my inclination and resolve to do ridiculous things.

Writer's Island "Embarrassing Predicament" & Sunday Scribblings "Stranger" - 11/16/08

This weeks prompt of “Embarrassing Predicament” from Writer’s Island and “Stranger” from Sunday Scribblings lend themselves to this story. My kids have been encouraging me to write about this event, not one of my finest moments. First, a bit of background.

I retired from the Air Force in 1992 and for some reason, still unknown to me, moved to Cheyenne, Wyoming. I went to work for the American Society of Composers, Authors, and Publishers (ASCAP) as the sole Wyoming field rep. My job in a nutshell was to sit in bars and listen to music, writing down what I heard. You see, to play music in public you are required to have a license which pays the creators of that music royalties. My job was to build a case against those that refused to purchase a license. Some called me the music police.

I received a pretty good salary and a company car. Pretty good gig. Except for one thing, Wyoming is freaking huge and traversing it winter is nearly impossible. For those not familiar, Cheyenne is almost not even in Wyoming. It is on the extreme southeastern border. The drives to Mammoth, which is almost not even in Wyoming on the extreme Northwestern border or Evanston, which is almost not even in Wyoming to the Southwest, are grueling. So I decided to move to the exact center of the state. It didn’t exactly take Euclid to find the center, since Wyoming is almost a perfect rectangle. This task would have been much more difficult had I been somewhere like Michigan.

The exact center of Wyoming is in the middle of nowhere (as most of Wyoming is) on Highway 20, near the town of Powder River, with a population of 51. So I selected the closest town with streetlights and a gas station. I moved to Riverton, Wyoming in 1994. Riverton is a nice town of a little under 10,000, with a great golf course (very important to me).

As Wyoming cities go, it is a virtual megalopolis, 9th largest in the state. Some of you who live in more populous areas are now gasping at this amazing fact. You are also wondering where this embarrassing predicament with a stranger occurs. OK, here it is.

Riverton sets smack dab inside the Wind River Reservation. This huge piece of wasteland is shared by two tribes, the Arapaho and the Shoshoni. I knew nothing of Native Americans (though I have some blood) other than what I had seen in old westerns. I have since found out that those accounts were somewhat slanted. I had heard about a lot of crime on the reservation, but most of it is between the two competing tribes. A bit like the Crips and the Bloods or the Hatfields and McCoys. They don’t necessarily love each other. But, though I am a white eye, I was still a bit wary of being a stranger.

Late one night, I was leaving the IGA grocery store, walking to my Ford Taurus POS company car. Two young Native American men cut me off from my car. That part of the parking lot was nearly empty. They were saying something to me, but Native American’s are very soft-spoken and speak almost under their breath. They also have a strong accent and dialect that I became familiar with later. I could not understand them but I knew one thing for sure. I had only been in town for a week or so and I was being robbed. I had a bag of groceries cradled in one arm and a gallon of milk hanging from the other. My survival instincts took over. I was not going to be a victim. In a surprise attack, I swung the gallon of milk upward as hard as I could against the jaw of one of my assailants. He went airborne over the hood of my car. The plastic jug exploded, showering the crime scene and me with milk. The other thug ran away before I could select something in my grocery bag to hit him with.

Almost immediately a police car arrived with blue lights blazing. The city cop asked me what happened and I proudly told him my heroic story. He started laughing, which I thought odd. He said, "You ain't from around here are ya? They weren't robbers, they were beggars. They wanted your change." I tried to explain and he waved me off. He said, "I will take care of them, just don't be clobbering our citizens with 2%." Luckily, the unconscious Arapaho draped across my car was not seriously injured. I was really sorry about what happened. I could have just said no. I am sure those two guys were not expecting my reaction to "spare change?" Put yourself in their moccasins. You ask a stranger for some change and WHAM, he initiates a homogenized attack on you. I left some money with the cop to give them. Not really, but, in hindsight, I wish I would have. It would just make me sound like less of a jerk.

I went back into the store to get a fresh jug of milk and a paper towel. The night manager met me with one of each. He said it was on the house because watching that episode was worth it. He had called the police to get rid of the beggars, who were bothering customers. He hadn't expected a vigilante would show up. For the rest of my six years in Riverton, every time I saw that particular police officer or any of the IGA night crew, I was referred to as the milkman. Coincidentally, I was never approached by panhandlers again.

People that know me know that I am a charitable person and not prone to attacks on Shriners, the homeless, or Habitat for Humanity volunteers.